northclifflogs | [Open] Horsing around

In an attempt to make himself useful and not further irritate his hired hands, Farogil offered to go stable the horses while they unload his belongings. Thank the heavens it's not a longer walk from his place at the north end of the market back down to the stables, because leading two tired horses who don't like him or each other is a much bigger task than he expected.

The large carthorse more or less leads himself straight to the stables. Faro might guess he's been there before if he weren't so occupied with trying to keep pace with him while his mare does her best to veer away. She's a nicely built little palfrey, and also very done with her inexperienced rider.

Faro gives up and drops the carthorse's lead when they reach the gate to the stableyard, allowing him to head right on in by himself. The man and his mare follow a few footfalls later, with the latter snorting and stomping and the former giving a soft, "Please."

Edited 2019-07-05 01:43 (UTC)

Farogil can no doubt hear someone talking to the cart horse shortly after it heads in, and the speaker joins them a few moments later. Detlef's about medium height, fairly golden in color, relatively clean, and currently shirtless.

"Hello," he calls a little warily, looking over the new arrival. Not a Shepherd, thank everything. "Welcome to my stables. I'm Detlef. Are they both with you?"

It makes the most sense, but asking hurts nothing. Detlef holds out a hand to the mare and clicks his tongue to her, seeing that she's not exactly happy right now.

"Yes," is his exasperated answer, though it comes with a relieved nod. The mare is similarly relieved and swivels her ears towards Detlef in greeting. Faro manages the few more steps needed to let her nose at the man's hand. There's an unsteadiness to his legs that might give him away as being saddlesore.

A moment passes where his mouth hangs open, bottom jaw wobbling with hesitation as he considers explaining why his mare is fussy and why he let the larger horse lead himself... then settles on the obvious response: an introduction. He lifts his free hand to his chest to indicate himself, "Farogil Figrove."

"Farogil Figrove," he repeats, taking in the man more fully now. He can't walk right from the riding, he's dressed rather nicely, and if Detlef was feeling like being mean he'd have fodder for teasing. But he's not.

"Come on in. I'm Detlef. Detlef Zauber. There's a fire and a couple of chairs and I can start seeing to them." Which he does, starting to loosen the tack quickly so the mare can be out of it. She's young, pretty, likely expensive. This might be the furthest she's ever traveled.

"Are you passing through?" Farogil gets another glance. He's cute. "Or lingering for a time? This village isn't entirely dull."

He's as grateful for a reprieve from teasing as he is for that chair. Faro's face lights up at the word and he gives a grateful nod before immediately hobbling deeper into the stable in search of the offered chair. He settles into it with a wince, turned at an angle so he can still look towards Detlef as he puts away the horses.

"Neither. Moved today, rode from Cliffside." He gives a purposeful rub at the outside of his thighs while giving a wide-eyed nod, as if to say so you can see why I'm limping and why she's fed up with me.

Cliffside. Big city, pretty fancy city, everyone's got their noses in the air. Or so he's heard. What could make someone move from there to here? He brings the mare over once she's relieved of her getup and holds out a brush for Faro.

"I'll brush him down, but she could use it too. Once they're taken care of, we can take care of you." Cliffside. Has he even brushed a horse before? Detlef decides to ask the bigger question. "What's brought you here?"

As soon as he realizes that Detlef is bringing the brush to him, he's on his feet and ready to accept it and the reins. There's a lift to his brows and a curve to his lips that might suggest he's happy to be included rather than annoyed at it like one might expect a city lad to be.

And he has brushed a horse before... many years ago, on a sweet and patient gelding, not a sassy young mare. She seems to tolerate him more now that the saddle's off at least, maybe even enjoys the caution he shows as he begins brushing. Farogil's focus on Brushing Correctly almost distracts him from that 'take care of you. Up goes one eyebrow again, this time from curiosity.

That question though. Faro tilts his head slightly, raises his shoulders in a half shrug, and lets out a long exhale. A lot of reasons. It's a long story summed in one one firmly stated word, "Independence."

A heartbeat passes before he risks his stutter to add a couple more: "Mmy own shop. Embroidery."

Farogil goes up a few notches in Detlef's estimation, overcoming the literal fancy pants, when he starts brushing with no protest. Detlef brings the pack horse over and starts to work on him, smiling at the care Farogil's showing. All right. So not just a cute rich boy who is stiff and sore from a little riding.

"Embroidery," he echoes a few moments later, raising his eyebrow now. "That seems a little... fancy, for a village like this. I'd think. But I could be wrong." Some prettier things would be nice, but it's definitely out of his budget and his business is relatively successful.

Faro gives a grimace that turns into a good-humored grin. Giving someone negative business advice unprompted would be rude if it wasn't something he'd heard before. More than once. Ok, a lot.

"I suppose I'll find out the hard way if you're not." Another shrug and a smile that hint he's okay with that and will still be proud of himself for trying. Or at least, that's what he's telling himself now that he's invested in it.

Faro's brush-pet his way to his mare's rear and ready to begin on her other side. He doesn't bother trying to get her to turn and risk breaking their truce, but he's at least smart enough to cross in front rather than behind her. He glances back over his shoulder to ask, "You know the town well?"

Time to break out the friendly conversation lines he's been practicing!

"Pretty well," Detlef confirms, glancing over at Farogil from time to time to make sure the mare's still doing fine. So far so good.

"I've been here about four years. Apprenticed to the old stablemaster, took over when he retired. I like the people." He pauses and grins. "Even Ben. You'll meet him soon enough, likely. He's grumpy. But he's not bad. You've come to a pretty good town."

Four years from apprentice to taking over? Faro gives him a brows-lifted nod of acknowledgement, a well done sort of look. He also makes a mental note to keep an eye out for a Grumpy Ben.

"I like it so far," he agrees with a quick glance, his eyes half-lidded in a way that could either be flirty or squinting from the setting sun. Plausible deniability is very important. "Well, apart from the ride in. I doubt it was much fun for her either."

He gives the mare a quick, slightly-awkward pat on the neck. It's the kind of fingers-only pat where he clearly knows patting horses is a thing one does but he's not sure where exactly and how hard he's supposed to do it for maximum bonding.

"I give riding lessons," he says with a smile that is both friendly and flirty, because he has no shame. "Horse and... otherwise."

Detlef steps around the pack horse to rub the mare on the neck, meeting Faro's eyes. "Like this. Every horse is going to appreciate this, though they'll relax and enjoy it more if you act like you know what you're doing. They can pick up on nerves."

Like people can, which is why Detlef is practically radiating confidence. It'll help with the horse, and maybe it'll help with a bit of fun. It's worth a shot.

Otherwise, says Detlef, and Faro's eyebrows lift up again, eyes widen, and mouth opens in surprise. How long has it been since someone's come onto him like that? A little hint of attraction maybe, but to flirt so boldly, in the daylight, and stone sober?

Ten months, that's now long. Farogil's been drowning his grief in embroidery and preparing to relocate, not getting drunk and teasing up a storm in a tavern as he used to before he met Nelda. A rough swallow helps him stifle the flickers of sadness that are likely creeping to his face, as does Detlef offering him something easy to focus on. He strokes the horse's neck exactly as instructed, eyes following the other man's hand for a quiet moment.

"Once I..." Farogil lifts an arm and points in the general direction of his new home, then makes a slight swirling motion with the comb, "Then I'll ccome back and-"

One he's settled in, he'll return and... what? He tilts his head slightly, gives a little smile that's somewhere between apology and hope, "Lessons."

Edited 2019-07-11 21:20 (UTC)

There's a lot of emotions on display from Farogil, far more than Detlef would have expected from someone from a well-off town who doesn't know much about riding or how practical villages need to be. He goes up a few spots in Detlef's mind.

"Then I'll look forward to your return, after you," he jerks a thumb in the direction that Farogil's pointed. "And when you return we'll see how long you want me caring for your horses, as well, and work out the bill."

That's delivered with a wink, too, as if to suggest the bill might be negotiable. "I'll certainly let you get settled in first."

If someone's going to acknowledge his stutter or the way he supplements his words with his hands, then Detlaf's playful repetition is just about the perfect way to do it. It says he understood and doesn't mind, with an undertone that Faro shouldn't mind either; or at least, that's how Faro takes it, given how used he is to much more negative reactions.

Then he winks and Faro immediately feels his face start to get hot. At least he doesn't stare at his feet like a bashful teen, and instead lets his eyes take in some of that bare skin Detlef's showing.

Oh right, the bill. Gods, he's out of practice.

"Oh, he's- he's on loan," he pauses his gawking and horse-patting to give a tiny over-shoulder point towards the carthorse, "His owners will collect him in the morning."

The blush basically settles it; Detlef is glad Farogil's come to town. Especially with how he's staring, because it seems like there's some mutual appreciation there.

"When they come by I'll discuss the charges with them, then. And our reunion can be free of talk of money. I prefer talks like that, anyway."

Detlef holds out a hand. "Until later, since you need to settle in still?"

Farogil's too flustered to clarify that he's meant to cover the gelding's stabling, but that's alright, he figures he can just pay the laborers extra and they can handle it in the morning. He nods as he takes Detlef's hand in his for a leisurely shake, probably more gentle and nervous than it would be if it didn't feel like they were arranging a date.

He can already tell he's going to spend at least an hour over-analyzing everything about this.

The cat he's carrying when he storms in seems content enough, floppy in his grip, probably because—despite the glare—one of his hands is tucked against fur and rubbing steadily at the fleabitten little monster's chest.

"I have better things to do than to chase your—"

Your might be a strong word, but the glare is aimed at Detlef, without a bit of concern as to whether or not he's trying to mope reclusively, or why.

"—stupid cats around the church."

He's not loud, but his tone breaks the reverie the cat had been in during the whole bumpy walk over, and it twists free of him to dart off into the stables.

"I don't recall anything saying you had to chase them," he retorts, getting up from where he'd been sitting, working on mending a stirrup. "Maybe he was helping keep mice out like a good mouser-wouser, who's a good boy?"

The cat comes up and bumps his hand for attention, which Detlef promptly gives. The cats care that he's profane only in that he keeps them healthy and well.

"Why were you chasing him?" The next person through those doors might be Shepherds and Detlef doesn't stand a chance against them, but at least he can try to protect his cats. And horses.

"He was," Kostos says slowly, like maybe the man is stupid—which isn't fair of him at all, given the ambiguity of the preposition around in this case, but he did also just say mouser-wouser—"in the church."

He likes animals, even, but there are limits. And he isn't in the mood.

But now that it's over, and the cat's back where it belongs, he looks around the stable with his usual critical glare. "Surely there are enough mice here."

Oh. In. That actually makes a difference. He may be Profane, but he's not down for defiling a church.

"I'm sorry about that. He's rather curious, and doesn't know when to stop looking around. And you might be surprised at how few mice I have here." Not because he keeps it excessively clean, it is a stable, but because at any given moment one is likely to see five or so pairs of cat eyes watching them. They know who will feed them. They don't know who is a grump, though, which is why one brave calico is now headbutting the back of Kostos' leg.

"If you keep the doors closed he'll have a harder time getting in in the future. He's sneaky, but he's not the climber of the group."

Edited 2019-07-11 02:40 (UTC)

Johanna is not one who visits others when they are being evasive. She is usually keen on letting them work through their own sorrows in peace...but she had appreciated his questions of the Shepherds. She should have been more worried when he was dragged away, should have checked sooner, but he lived still. She is not sure why she is here, truly, but she knocks on the doors to the stables nonetheless.

He answers the door tiredly, even a little fearfully. Hiding in here means he doesn't know if the Shepherds have left or not yet. Thankfully it's no Shepherd outside his door, and Detlef sags in a little bit of relief as he holds it open.

"Should I put tea on? Or soup?" There's a short beat before he glances back inside. "The soup might still be on, on second thought."

She looks a bit confused for a beat and answers a little uneasily.

"Soup, I suppose," she says and, as they are not bothering with pretense, she holds out the bottle in her hand. It is blown greenish glass, fairly well done, sealed with red wax. It is a bottle of the first batch she has made in Northcliff Pass. It doesn't have a label, she didn't bother.

"Here."

"Thank fuck," he says as he takes the bottle, the first thing he's said with full energy in a few hours. The door gets closed behind her before he leads the way to his little kitchen area. The first order of business is pouring two glasses of the booze, and only then does he portion out soup and hold it out.

"At least, if you're about to tell me I was an absolute idiot, this will soften the blow. Is that why you're here?"

This is a distilled spirit, something much stronger than wine or ale, and not generally imbibed by the full cup. Still, she appreciates his enthusiasm and makes no comment even as the smell of it, almost antiseptic, attempts to overpower the smell of fire and soup. She takes both the cup and the bowl and sits, albeit awkwardly, as though this was not where she expected to speak or what she expected to be doing when she did.

"No," Johanna answers and hesitates as if running through what she wishes to say and making sure the translation syncs up. "Fuck them. You were right."

She gestures with her cup at the bottle and takes a healthy drink. It burns enough that it even has her wincing.

"That is in thanks. It was brave to speak, even if it was stupid, even if there was nothing to be done. It was brave."

Edited (Phone typos are the worst) 2019-07-05 06:29 (UTC)

He looks a little surprised and a lot relieved by her words and raises his glass in return before taking a sip... and bursting out coughing. A lot. His eyes water and he wheezes for several moments before he gets back in control of himself.

"Speaking of stupid," he says hoarsely, quickly taking a spoonful of soup to soothe his throat. After a few moments, feeling emboldened by her words, he speaks again albeit quietly. "I wish there was something more that could be done than speaking up and putting a target on my back. I wish we could require proof that those accused by the Shepherds had actually hurt someone." But what does he know? He's barely an adult, and his days are spent with animals.

She doesn't laugh when he sputters and chokes, but it is a near thing. Her smirk is wide and amused when he finally calms down. As he starts to speak about the Shepherds, however, her expression falls back to grim normalcy.

"It is that way elsewhere," she says and it is half true. She had not encountered Shepherds in Haugenne and, frankly, the way they behaved was alarming. "Or at least not as brazen. There is little to be done to change it here, I expect."

Apart from direct action, but the consequences of that would be dire.

"Why is it worse here?" Why hadn't he fled across the water? Why had he gotten here and stopped? He exhales and tries a far-smaller sip of the drink she's brought. This goes better, though it's a far sight stronger than most things he's had before.

"I should think more about surviving, but that could be any of us next, whether someone does something or not. And then we'll... what? I'm a fan of praying, but praying doesn't protect against them." Now that he's started talking, he doesn't know if he can stop. Lance, Colin, Johanna, so far he doesn't think he's opened his mouth to someone who would turn him in and get him killed, but even so it might not change anything. He'd already opened his mouth around the Shepherds.

"I'm tired. But I like this village."

He is ranting then, carried on a train of thought she can't quite see but can understand. His fear would not be out of place, as a normal person who might be caught out for something and be dubbed profane, but ghe idea to leave, even unspoken, is odd. She looks at him placidly as he goes on, and studies the way he moves, behaves.

If he is profane, he is a very foolish man. If not, he has a great deal of empathy. Perhaps it is neither. Perhaps it is both. Johanna cannot say, so she makes no guesses as she eats some of the soup.

"Prayer protects against nothing, of that you can be sure," Johanna says as casually as one might announce the weather. She should be more cautious with her blasphemies but she does not want to be, not today.

"If you like it here, stay here, it is no better elsewhere. The danger here is simply...shaped differently...and if they come for one of us, well, we shall see what happens then."

Both, all of the above, every bit of it. Her blasphemy definitely catches his attention, though, and the words that follow it. For several moments he's quiet, returning to his soup and studying the floor with narrowed eyes.

"I wonder," Detlef says quietly. "Would that help their target, or would it endanger the whole village?" After a moment he sighs. This whole topic is dangerous, and it's not going to get them anywhere. He looks up and gives her a lopsided smile.

"Welcome to our home, are you glad you joined it yet?"

"I am," she says and it doesn't have the same ring of jest that he tries to employ. She does offer him a smile, albeit a flat one, and downs the rest of her alcohol before setting the cup aside. It was too much to drink in one go and she has to wince and let out a sharp breath as it burns down her throat, but it is done now. She has had worse.

"It is cold, it is miserable, there are too many bugs, and the woods smell of old moss and soggy leaves," she says and sounds a bit hoarse as she does. "But the people mind their manners, when they have them, and leave me alone. I can enjoy quiet and solitude and no one has yet asked me to read them anything."

She cradles the soup between her hands.

"This place would make a good home."

"It does," he says earnestly, dropping the joke. Talking about himself and his experience isn't something he likes to do, he tends to make light of everything, but events of the past couple of days are hanging over him and making that difficult. There's a short silence as he takes another bite of his soup and lets the moment linger. Then, as is typical, he's looking up with a smile again.

"I can't promise to always leave you alone, but I can promise to help make this place a home."

The inn and stables are Finian's last stop before he goes back to the infirmary, but he's taking care to see everyone in town with his basket of tea packets.
He's peering around to see if Detlef is near and his head is met with a cat's, so he turns to reciprocate the gesture properly before turning to call out, "Detlef?"

As he hadn't been grabbed overnight and hauled out of town he's starting to feel better by the time he hears Finian's voice. That doesn't mean there isn't a moment of nerves when he remembers who the guy's dad is, but this is Finian.

"Hey," Detlef says from the hayloft, leaning forward so he can peer down before coming down the ladder. "Did you want to go riding?"

Looking up, Finian smiles and shakes his head. "No, no thanks," he says pleasantly, "just bringing some tea around. Rose and chamomile, to soothe the nerves." His voice gets a bit softer as he extends a packet toward Detlef.
"Yesterday was .... well we... had a hard day yesterday."

Lance hasn't told his son, and that makes complete sense. Knowing the secret could be dangerous. That doesn't make Detlef's hands completely steady as he takes the tea, though.

"We did." His voice is quiet. "Are you all right?" He steps toward the fireplace and jerks his thumb toward the kettle near it as a question.

Finian holds up one hand to decline the invitation, but still easily lets Detlef take the packet. He's already sat and had tea with Johanna, which he hadn't necessarily planned for-- not that it's a problem, but he is a bit behind schedule.

"Me? Yeah, I-- I mean, I'm all right." He looks down at his near-empty basket. "I've seen people die before. And... in worse ways, even." At least it was quick.

"I don't see how that makes it better." He's seen plenty of people die before, especially those accused of being Profane. It's not easier with more exposure. "Every time it's awful. Every time it could be one of our neighbors. It's certainly almost always someone that someone cared about."

Just... not enough to risk their life for. But why risk your life when it's almost certain that you'd lose yours too? He's never heard of Shepherds relenting.

"It usually is one of our neighbors," Finian says, not quite taking his meaning. Who else would be dying in town, apart from the occasional pilgrim or merchant? "But-- you're right, it was awful. It doesn't have to be. But it was."

He's been there to aid many a dying person, but can't say he's ever murdered any of them.

"...you weren't here yet," he realizes, "when there was someone killing people in town. Left and right, my da said. I wasn't supposed to look at them, but..." He was a curious boy, of course he did.

His expression gets a little guarded. It's Finian. He's as innocent as they come. But he's also, well, as innocent as the come which means that he'd repeat anything without suspicion or guile or thought, and Detlef needs to try to be a little careful for once this month.

"I wasn't. I'd heard a whisper or two about it, but never really followed up on them. What did you see?" Was it a Profane? Probably, considering Finian's bringing it up. How many helpful vice users are there to the destructive ones?

"They were all shot with a crossbow," Finian says, knitting his brow, "always-- a clean kill, like from a hunter. Like yesterday." His eyes go a bit distant as he dwells on it.
"The people who do that have to be used to it. Killing other people." It's a disturbing thought. "And the man, the Profane, he didn't even get to... to say anything, like he was sorry, or." He rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe he would've cast a spell. I guess."

He doesn't sound convinced.

"Butchers get used to killing animals, I guess," he says slowly. He'd never really thought about it, about killing so many times that it doesn't get to you. Or even seeing killings so many times. Were Shepherds like that? They'd killed so many times that it didn't bother them? Or did they ever care in the first place?

"And I don't..." he sighs. How does he say this safely? "It never seems like the Profane they catch and kill are able to toss off a spell like that. Otherwise, how would a Shepherd catch and hold them?"

"I dunno." Finian chews his lower lip. "...but I guess I've never met a Profane, so I don't really know what they'd be capable of."
It's said completely without irony: as far as he's concerned, their powers would be so visible, so evil, that their Profanity would be unmistakable.

"Anyway, I better get to the shop." His smile returns, genuine as ever. "I hope today's better for you. Take care of him, Sneak." The cat gets a scratch behind the ears.

You've met at least two, Detlef thinks but knows full well not to say. He likes Finian. The last thing he wants to do is scare the guy. Or get himself killed.

"Thank you, Finian." He returns the smile; Finian might have the most returnable smile in the village, if not even further. "If you ever want to spend time with the Lord, or the horses, or me for that matter, you know where to find us."

Detlef isn't the only one who has kept more to himself since the public execution; friendly demeanour or not, Kit plays these cards close to his chest, and so eases back into socialization only once he's confident in his ability to maintain his façade. Nevertheless, it is genuine thoughtfulness that has him pause by the entrance to the stables and eye a bit of awning.

He takes a brief pull from his cigarette, breathes out the smoke, then nods up at it. "That joint is looking a bit loose," he says to Detlef. "Want me to take a look at it?"

Sometimes a bit of company and a simple problem to solve can do wonders for an anxious mind.

He's... recovering. It was the first death since he'd been found out, and he's chalking up his breaking to that, but it still means he's taking some time. The visits, however, help. Somehow. Maybe it's because he's a very social person. Whatever the reason, the stress isn't too much for him to give Kit a small smile.

"I'd appreciate it. Otherwise I might be wrangling someone in an unruly mood and it'll give at just the wrong time." Someone and not something, because the animals, well. Sure. They're things. But they're also his company much of the time, and his patients as well. They'll never judge him for using the Vice, either. How many people here would still be even civil if they knew? That's not a question he should dwell on and he knows it.

"Would you like some cider? I've had it warming by the fire."

"Would you like some cider? I've had it warming by the fire."

"Twist my arm, why don't you," Kit replies, his easy-going smile already in place, and ambles beneath the awning. He pauses to take one last pull off his cigarette before flicking it into the dirt and mashing out the burning cherry with the toe of his boot. "I won't say no to a drink."

There's no casual way to bring up the bloody spectacle they both bore witness to the other day, and so he doesn't yet.

[Open] Horsing around

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the morning after

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